1. It’s too easy for me to forget where I am.
2. I feel like I need to move fast a lot of the time, why?
Maybe these two are in fact one, or at least inexorably linked.
I rarely cross the road in a straight line. As long as traffic permits, I will veer out and cross at a diagonal, shaving metres off my route by taking the Euclidean distance rather than the taxicab route. Did I need to? Well, its possible, maybe probable, that I’m late. If I ought to leave home in 10 minutes to be on time, I will undertake a 15 minute activity. I rush to set up the things I need in order to relax. I just don’t spend time not doing.
“If you don’t do it this year, you’ll be one year older when you do”
– Warren Miller.
Another side to Warren’s coin is emerging: if you try to get it all done all at once, you won’t get much of anything done at all.
Where am I? I am at home in a house in Fulham. I am on a couch. I can see a rowing machine and a glass rhinoceros.
It is a dark night. No, that is not quite true: from inside, the dark surrounds me. I know that, were I to go out into it, it wouldn’t be so dark. I can hear the planes that would light up the sky. I can almost glimpse the orange haze that would line the close horizon.
My concentration span seems infantile lately. Why right now as I write I flit screens back to an open browser, with no purpose other than to not stay still. What am I scared of? What is it about stillness? Why do I shy away?
As I sit and let it come my breath releases in a long sigh.
Something slowly shifts.
Like silence but not really silent.
Just that still sort of quiet
like the sound of a page being turned in a book
or a pause in a walk in the woods.